Makin' Whoopee by Billie Green Page B

this."
    Sara squealed when Charlie began tickling her. "Stop that!" she protested, gasping, and tried to push his hands away.
    "Okay," he said immediately, then clasped his hands behind her neck and brought his lips to hers. All the laughter died away as her hands came up to push at his shoulders.
    But her hands had a mind all their own. Without her permission, they clasped his head to hold him close. Sara couldn't lie to herself now. She had been dying for this all week.
    He moved closer, molding her body against his. And when she felt the hard maleness of him pressing into her, she had to swallow a moan of pure desire.
    "Did you say something?" he murmured, then sucked gently on her lower lip.
    She pulled away from him. "What? No, I don't think so," she whispered breathlessly. "What did it sound like?"
    He slid his lips down her neck. "It sounded kind of like, 'Oh, Charlie, you're wonderful. Don't ever stop.' Did you say something like that?"
    Laughing huskily, she pushed her fingers into his hair, holding his lips against her. "No, I didn't."
    He raised his head and leaned his forehead against hers. "Someone said it," he insisted, rubbing her nose with his as his fingers slid beneath her buttocks and lifted her against him. "Maybe it was me."
    He brushed his lips across hers, refusing to deepen the kiss even when her fingernails dug urgently into his scalp. "Charlie . . . Charlie. Irma's coming back. I heard the front door close."
    "She'll have to wait her turn," he said, then deepened the kiss at last, his mouth absorbing her gasp of pleasure.
    "I'm serious," she said when she could finally speak again. "What would she think if she saw us like this?"
    "She would probably think a gorgeous woman was being thoroughly kissed and cuddled by a charming, handsome—in an unostentatious way—man."
    She pulled one of his curls. "You've never been unostentatious in your entire life, and if Irma catches me sitting on her breadboard, I refuse to take the blame."
    When the housekeeper walked back into the kitchen, Sara was standing casually by the counter, her face flushed, her hair disheveled. Charlie stood at her side, holding out a metal cheese grater.
    "—and of course," he was saying, "this is one of the main hazards of the kitchen. Next to the wire whisk—which can leave some really ugly marks—I would say this little devil causes more accidents in your average American kitchen than anything else." He smiled. "Anytime you want to know more about safety in the kitchen, just let me know."
    Sara was shaking with suppressed laughter, but Irma didn't more than glance at them before she resumed her preparations for lunch.
    "When are we going to start our affair, Irma?" Charlie asked cheerfully, reaching around the older woman to steal a carrot.
    She slapped his hand. "When you see blackbirds flying backward I might give some time to a no-good filmflammer like you."
    "You tease," he chided, and shook his head sadly. "I think we need more honesty in our relationship, Irma. You've got to stop beating around the bush. These games you modern women play are confusing for a poor country boy." With a wink at Sara he left the kitchen.
    As soon as she felt reasonably calm, Sara went back to her office, but her mind kept straying from her work. She could have killed Charlie for throwing her life into turmoil. Things had been fine the way they were before. Why did he have to start messing around with their relationship? It took every bit of her energy, mental and physical, to keep up with the business. She couldn't afford this kind of distraction.
    Placing the heels of her hands on her desk, she drew in a deep breath. She refused to let this happen. She would fight it, just as she had fought other unseen enemies in the past. Picking up a list from her desk, she went back to work.
    After lunch they drove several miles to the north of Billings in Charlie's convertible. Sara teased him about owning a wreck, but silently she admitted that even if